Werner

A goodly shape, More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre, Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars! A broken harp, suspended at his side, A faded garland, wreathed about his brow, Tell what he was, and still employ his care. With thin white hand, that trembles at its task, In vain he strives to bind the broken chords, And to their primal melody attune them;— In vain,—for to his efforts still replies A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound. And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks, He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow, And gazing on its withered leaves, exclaims,— "For earthly fame I sung the songs of earth, Forgetful of all higher, holier themes,— 'Tis meet the meed I won should perish thus." Is not the justice which confines him here Akin to cruelty? for his sad heart Seems, as his earthly strains were, full of softness.